Chapter 37
Icy raindrops pattered against the crumbling tiles of the dilapidated temple, gathering into thin streams that meandered down the cracks in the walls, forming muddy puddles on the uneven ground. The dim oil lamp flickered in the wind that streamed through the hall, stretching Su Wanwan's moon-white figure in varying lengths and shadows, casting a ghostly shadow on the mottled, cobweb-covered mud walls. The air was thick with the choking fumes of low-quality lamp oil, the pungent bitterness of herbs, and the lingering, rusty, stench of blood.
Mo Ya lay on the cold, straw-covered ground. Every labored breath pierced the excruciating pain in his broken right shoulder, akin to being repeatedly pierced and throbbed by countless red-hot steel needles. The fever burned his brain like an invisible branding iron, his vision blurring and shaky. Su Wanwan's moon-white figure, reflected in the light, appeared like a reflection in water, sometimes coming together and sometimes disappearing. Only the strange, bone-deep chill from the broken right shoulder, like a glimmer of light in the darkness, barely maintained a shaky sense of consciousness.
He clenched his teeth tightly, his gums making a subtle creaking sound from the exertion. Cold sweat, mixed with the rain and dirt on his face, rolled down his face. He watched Su Wanwan, her back to him, under the dim oil lamp, using a slender golden needle. With extreme concentration, she slowly and carefully burned the tip of the needle over the dancing flame. The needle glowed slightly red, and a dazzling light gathered at the tip.
Those icy gray eyes reflected the burning heat of a needlepoint, without a ripple, only a near-cruel focus. She turned, her moon-white skirt brushing against the muddy ground as she approached silently. In the dim light, her pale, almost transparent face was expressionless. Only her eyes, like two bottomless pools of cold water, clearly reflected Mo Ya's face, distorted by the excruciating pain and toxicity.
"If you can't bear it, you will die." Her voice was so cold and without a trace of warmth, like icicles knocking against each other, penetrating the buzzing noise in Mo Ya's ears.
Before he finished speaking, the red-hot golden needle, carrying a scorching breath, had already pierced into the darkest area with the rotten flesh and a faint blue edge deep in the wound of Mo Ya's broken arm on his right shoulder with incredible precision!
"laugh--!"
A subtle, yet numbing, burning sound echoed! An indescribable mixture of intense heat and bone-deep pain erupted from the depths of the wound like a volcanic eruption, instantly sweeping across Mo Ya's entire body!
“Ugh—!!!”
Mo Ya's body shot upward like a fish shot by a powerful bow! His remaining left arm dug into the cold, damp earth beneath him, his nails instantly cracking, revealing blood and flesh! A suppressed, beast-like howl erupted from his throat. Veins bulged from his neck and forehead, and his eyeballs were bloodshot from the intense pain, practically popping out of their sockets! The muscles in his broken arm convulsed wildly, and his entire body convulsed uncontrollably!
This pain was beyond the limits of human endurance! It felt like a red-hot iron was stabbing deep into the bone marrow, and like countless poisonous insects were frantically gnawing at the nerve endings, injecting ice and fire!
Su Wanwan's left hand, like an iron clamp, firmly grasped Mo Ya's right shoulder, which struggled frantically in excruciating pain. Her fingertips were cold, steady, and motionless. Her icy gray eyes, looking down at Mo Ya's face, twisted in agony, held no pity or disgust, only the cold scrutiny of a test subject. Her right hand grasped the golden needle that had pierced deep into the rotting flesh, her wrist twisting and thrusting with incredibly steady, slow movements.
Every twist brings a new wave of soul-tearing pain!
The black crow's wail faded into a broken, gurgling gasp, its body twisting and convulsing in vain under Su Wanwan's grip. Consciousness drifted in a torrent of excruciating pain, its vision filled only with flickering lights and a pair of cold, gray eyes reflecting its own dying form. Death had never been so close, yet it was pinned to its shell by this inhuman agony.
I don't know how long it took, perhaps just a moment, or perhaps it felt like a century. Su Wanwan finally stopped twisting the golden needle. She pulled it outward with an extremely steady hand.
"puff."
The needle was pulled out with a trace of sticky, black and purple blood and burnt tissue debris. The red light of the needle tip had faded and was covered with filth.
The searing pain in his heart and bones abruptly subsided like the ebbing tide, replaced by a bone-chilling numbness and emptiness that penetrated his bones. Mo Ya collapsed to the ground, feeling as if all his bones had been ripped out. Only his chest rose and fell violently. Each gasp carried a burning white breath and the thick taste of blood in his throat. Sweat, mud, and blood soaked the hay beneath him, and he felt as if he had just been pulled out of a bloody pond.
Su Wanwan didn't even glance at the filthy golden needle, casually dropping it into a nearby, broken bowl filled with murky medicinal liquid. The liquid in the bowl sizzled softly, and a faint puff of green smoke rose. She picked up a relatively clean piece of coarse cloth, dipped it in the dark brown liquid, and, with unkind movements, wiped the wound on Mo Ya's severed arm, leaving behind even more hideous, tangled flesh, left behind by the burns and scrapings.
The medicinal juice contacted the wound, bringing a new wave of intense pain, like the stabbing pain of countless fine needles, but compared to the torture of the golden needles burning the blood, it was mild. Mo Ya closed his eyes tightly, his body trembling slightly, his teeth clenched, and he made no sound, only his heavy breathing echoing in the dilapidated temple.
Su Wanwan wiped the wound quickly, with an undeniable efficiency. After cleaning the wound, she picked up another piece of cloth soaked in medicine and began to bandage it. Her fingers inevitably touched Mo Ya's scalding skin, which was tense from the pain and high fever.
Just as her fingertips were wrapped around the strip of cloth and accidentally brushed against the wound on the left side of Mo Ya's neck that had been scratched by the ice silk and had formed a thin scab -
Mo Ya's body suddenly stiffened!
An extremely subtle, yet unusually clear, strange, numb feeling, like countless ice needles instantly piercing the nerve endings, passed through Su Wanwan's fingertips without any warning! This feeling was fleeting, as fast as an illusion, but it suddenly alerted Mo Ya's remaining consciousness!
Poison! This woman's fingertips... were stained with some extremely cold and virulent poison! It was the same source as the ice silk she used! This feeling... was eerily similar to the numbness caused by being brushed against by the poisoned dagger underwater at the Linqing Sluice! Both felt a chill that penetrated deep into the bone marrow!
Su Wanwan seemed oblivious to Mo Ya's momentary stiffness, her bandaging movements remaining steady and fluid. Soon, Mo Ya's severed arm was bandaged roughly but tightly. The strong scent of herbs mixed with the stench of blood temporarily suppressed the stench of decay.
After completing all this, Su Wanwan stood up and stepped back. She stood at the edge of the dim oil lamplight, her moon-white dress standing out against the grimy backdrop of the dilapidated temple. She lowered her head and carefully wiped her fair, slender fingers, one by one, as if she had just touched something extremely filthy. Her movements were slow and graceful, tinged with a deep obsession with cleanliness and aloofness.
"Your life is temporarily hanging on." She raised her eyes, her icy grey pupils resting on Mo Ya's face once again. Her voice remained cold and ethereal. "The 'blue spider saliva' has mixed with old wounds and penetrated deep into the flesh and bone marrow. It cannot be eradicated without the aid of golden needles, fire moxibustion, and the properties of cold pond grass. Cold pond grass..." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the still-falling rain outside the dilapidated temple. "...can only be found by the cold pond deep in Yunmengze. If you don't obtain the cold pond grass within three days, the suppressive power of the golden needles will dissipate, and the remaining poison will attack your heart meridians. Even a god cannot save you."
Her words calmly stated a cruel fact, like a verdict.
Mo Ya lay on the cold muddy ground, his remaining consciousness struggling to function amidst the aftermath of excruciating pain and the dizziness of a high fever. Three days... Cold Pond Grass... Yunmeng Lake... He moved his remaining left arm slightly, trying to prop himself up, but only felt a sharp dizziness and a sharp pain like a tearing wound. He no longer had the strength to even lift his head.
Su Wanwan watched his futile struggles. A subtle, elusive wave of emotion seemed to flicker across the depths of her icy-gray eyes. It was fleeting, as swift as an illusion. She stopped looking at Mo Ya and turned toward the worn wooden table, where she began to sort through the scattered golden needles and ice silk rolls, her movements still methodical.
The dilapidated temple fell into a dead silence, with only the crackling sound of the burning oil lamp, the sound of rain outside the window, and the heavy and labored breathing of Mo Ya.
In this dead silence——
“Ding…ding ding…ding ding ding…”
An extremely slight, yet unusually clear, metallic knocking sound with a certain special rhythm suddenly came from a certain direction outside the ruined temple, shrouded in rain!
This sound... isn't raindrops! It's short, crisp, and at steady intervals, with an unnatural, cold rhythm! It's like... some kind of specially made metal reed is continuously tapping!
Mo Ya's drowsy consciousness suddenly jolted! This sound… the rhythm and frequency of this sound… surprisingly resembled the life-threatening, beeping copper whistle that he had vaguely heard underwater in the Linqing Sluice, on his dazed escape. It was about eighty percent similar! Though the timbre was different, the unique, mechanically precise rhythm was exactly the same!
Signal! This is some kind of communication signal! And it's very directional!
He suppressed his dizziness and used all his strength to move his eyes very slightly, looking in the direction where the sound came from - outside the gap of the crooked, leaky wooden door of the dilapidated temple.
At the edge of the dim, flickering light of the oil lamp, Su Wanwan's movements of arranging the golden needles paused ever so slightly when she heard the series of knocking sounds.
The pause was almost imperceptible, as fast as the flickering of a candle flame. But Mo Ya caught it! Something seemed to light up in the depths of those icy gray eyes, then quickly shrouded by a deeper chill.
She didn't turn around, nor did she look out the door. She simply placed the last golden needle into a flat ebony needle bag with a soft, click-like sound. Then, she picked up the roll of ice silk with a jade-white sheen on the table. Her wide, moon-white sleeves silently dropped, completely covering the roll.
After doing all this, she slowly turned around, and for the first time, her eyes truly penetrated the dim light and the smell of blood and herbs in the ruined temple, and fell on Mo Ya's face.
The look in her eyes was completely different from the cold scrutiny she'd held during the acupuncture session. There was no longer any scrutiny or distance in them, only a pure chill, like a thousand-year-old black ice. Within that chill was a subtle hint of amusement, like a hunter watching their trapped, struggling prey... amusement?
"Your luck isn't too bad." Su Wanwan's voice was still cold, but now it carried an indescribable, bone-chilling meaning. "Someone... found the medicine for you."
Before he could finish his words, the crooked wooden door of the dilapidated temple was suddenly pushed open by a hand covered in mud, with unusually thick joints and thick calluses!
"Bang!"
The door panel hit the broken wall, making a harsh groan.
Wind and rain, carrying icy dampness, instantly poured into the temple, causing the flame of the oil lamp to flicker wildly, nearly extinguishing it. In the dim light, a towering figure, like an iron tower, blocked the doorway.
He wore a mud-stained, coarse cloth jersey and a tattered bamboo hat, dripping from the brim. His face, bare, revealed a sharp, angular face, as if etched with a knife and an axe, his cheeks a dark red from the cold wind. Most striking were his eyes—sharp, fierce, like a hawk, fixed intently on the black crow lying on the temple ground, with undisguised, bloodthirsty excitement and a hint of cat-and-mouse cruelty.
Han Meng!
He supported himself with a noticeable awkwardness on his left ankle, evidently still unhealed from the laceration he'd suffered at the hands of Mo Ya outside the aqueduct. But this didn't diminish his ferocity in the slightest. His gaze swept over Mo Ya's horrifically severed arm and the bandages, a ferocious grin forming at the corners of his mouth. Then, his gaze shifted to Su Wanwan, who stood by the oil lamp, his eyes instantly filled with undisguised awe and deference.
"Girl." Han Meng's voice was hoarse and low, like the friction of sandpaper. He bowed slightly, his movements showing a stiff respect under brute force. "The person has been found, and the things... have been brought as well." As he spoke, his right hand, which was covered with thick calluses and old scars, took out a small package wrapped tightly in oilcloth from his arms, held it in both hands, and handed it respectfully to Su Wanwan.
The oilcloth package wasn't large, but it looked incredibly solemn in his hands. A faint, heart-pounding blue hue shone from the edges of the package.
The antidote to "Blue Spider Saliva"? Or... a new poison?
Mo Ya's heart sank to the bottom. Han Meng's appearance completely shattered his last shred of hope. Su Wanwan and Han Meng... were indeed in cahoots! This dilapidated temple was essentially a prison for him!
Su Wanwan's icy grey eyes swept over the oilcloth package Han Meng handed her, but she didn't immediately take it. Her gaze fell back on Mo Ya's face, the playfulness in her eyes growing stronger, as if she were admiring a nearly completed cruel painting.
"I've got the medicine." Her cold voice echoed over the wind, rain, and crackling of the oil lamp, like a final verdict. "But how to feed him the medicine... depends on whether he's willing to drink it."
She raised her chin slightly, pointed at the package in Han Meng's hand, then looked at Mo Ya, with a very faint but icy arc on her lips.
"Lord Mo Ya, don't you think so?"
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